Page 69 of Better as It

She breathes through it, slow and deep like we practiced, then groans, “Yeah, definitely not practice.”

I’m moving before the next one hits. Bag by the door. Phone in hand. Calling the clinic. Calling BW. Getting her coat.

She swats me with it when I try to help her into it. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”

I grin. “Sure. Tell that to the wall you just threatened.”

She glares.

But she lets me take her hand.

The drive is the longest thirty minutes of my life.

She grips the edge of the seat like it insulted her personally. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. Every few minutes she squeezes the life out of it.

“God, Justin—just drive.”

“I’m going the speed limit.”

“Screw the speed limit.”

“You yell at me for driving too fast, and now you yell when I don’t.”

She growls like a wounded animal.

“You’re beautiful when you’re homicidal.”

“I will kill you.”

But when the next contraction rolls through, she doesn’t let go of my hand. At the hospital, everything goes fast. Too fast and not fast enough.

The nurses check her in. Monitors beep. Fluids drip. There’s talk of centimeters and effacement and “early labor” and “we’ve got time.”

She gives them a look that saysyou don’t know shit. She’s already dilated five centimeters.

By the time they get her into a delivery suite, she’s at seven.

“No drugs,” she growls.

I blink. “Babe, maybe we talk about?—”

“No. Drugs.”

The nurse glances at me with wide eyes.

I just nod. “She means it.”

Dia breathes through another contraction, her whole body going taut. I hold her hair back and rub her shoulders.

“You’re doing perfect,” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer.

She bites down on my shirt.

An hour later, she’s at ten.

“I can’t do this,” she gasps.

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